


wips for the viewing

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crack, Don't copy to another site, F/F, F/M, Fic Dump, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Law AU, Multi, this is what happens when you have too many ideas and too little time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 11:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: a collection of wips that have spanned over quite some time.in order:oliver dies but its crack (marcus x oliver)college au (draco x pansy)escort au (marcus x oliver)getting together (katie x alicia)college au (cho x cormac)amnesia au (marcus x oliver)marriage law au (multi)greek god au (marcus x oliver)





	1. oliver dies but its crack (flintwood)

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these will never get finished, honestly, no matter how much I love the premise. But I love these wips with all my heart - it's rough and unedited and just words blurted out on a page. 
> 
> hope you enjoy and please do feel free to yell at me about your theories/thoughts/opinions on any of these!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was completely meant to be a crack fic but my humor brain died halfway thru

Oliver Wood dies on a Wednesday evening with ridiculous amounts of fanfare and not nearly enough wizarding insurance. It’s not even heroic, or daring, or _ anything _ , the way he dies - it’s not a game, or an exhibition match, but rather a practice at Puddlemere’s stadium and his heart just - _ stops _\- mid-flight and that’s that. 

As all things go, he’s pretty pissed. 

When he comes to, he’s quite aware that he’s, well, dead. He is staring at his body, after all, sprawled on the grass of the pitch and his teammates yelling in increasing frenzy as the coach runs for the mediwitch. 

There’s a brilliant window of light Oliver notices in his periphery the same time his body is levitated away from the pitch. He’s heard of this, he supposes. It’s all his mum would talk about, how before his gran had died she’d babbled for an hour about the halo and the other dead relatives. He knows he’s supposed to - pass over? 

But. Well. Oliver seethes. He is (_ was) _ twenty-seven, damnit. He’d barely played three years of first-string and now _ this _. The universe is distinctly unfair. 

Oliver glares at the window of light. “Is there quidditch in the afterlife?”

The window doesn’t change. 

“I’ll take that as a no then,” Oliver mutters, “No. No, thank you, I’m sticking right here.” 

And then his consciousness suddenly takes form again and he’s looking down and his hands are wispy and greyish-silver and his teammates are pointing up and someone yells, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Wood, you wanna be a ghost for Quidditch, don’t you?”

They’re not wrong.

***

He haunts his old apartment (“It’s technically still mine!” he yells at a teary-eyed and increasingly frustrated Percy as his best friend tries to reason with him to relinquish the lease), the Puddlemere locker room (his teammates have learned to ignore his lamenting moans in the showers), and the Quidditch supply store he used to frequent (the store owner is so old and visually impaired, Oliver truly doubts he’d noticed anything different). 

Oliver is halfway through his usual routine of banging the locker doors shut while sulking when his coach comes stalking in, wagging a stern finger. 

“Look, Wood, while we’re all still technically in mourning, you’re getting on our damn last nerve.”

“But I don’t know what to do with myself,” Oliver wails.

“Tough. We gotta replace your spot on the team and having you here moping about is putting off all the new recruits.”

“Good,” Oliver mutters under his breath, “It’s my damn spot.”

“You’re useless to us on a broom,” his coach says with no sympathy, “So either knock it off and get outta here, or make yourself useful and help us find a new player.”

“But I don’t want to,” Oliver wails again.

“You’re acting like a child,” his coach sighs, “Just - make yourself useful, alright? There’s no point in acting petulant for the rest of eternity, damn you.”

Oliver pouts, but he does, begrudgingly, get the point. 

He gives it his best, truly. The thing is, all of the new recruits are either put off by him giving them pointers - Oliver supposes that there is something kind of off-putting about a ghost sticking his arm through your chest to direct your movement - or just not good enough for the caliber the team is playing at. 

His coach is getting frustrated. His team is getting frustrated. But both parties agree that it’s been exceptionally hard finding a replacement for Oliver. 

“You miss me, don’t you,” Oliver preens to Carlson as they watch yet another recruit fail to block a pass.

Carlson, a Chaser who’d started at the same time Oliver had, glares at him. “It’s hard to miss you when you insist on being around. All. The. Time.”

“Still.” Oliver huffs. 


	2. dransy college au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is self-indulgent as FUCK - a lot of this is snapshots that i need to connect so its a mess tbhqh

Draco says “I love you,” and she responds “You’re really fucking drunk right now,” and he says “I suppose,” then pukes unceremoniously into the toilet. 

All in all, it’s a pretty typical Friday night. 

Pansy can’t feel her knees anymore, kneeling there for what she’s sure has been two hours on the tiles of Draco’s stupidly ginormous studio apartment. She has a bowl of ice chips in her hand, and it’s dripping all over her satin mini-dress, creating blooming blots of dark pink that are so cold they pierce through to her thighs. 

It’s Christmas, and they hadn’t gone home this year. Home was too far away for her, and increasingly _ difficult _ for him, and so instead of joining in on the usual festivities, they’d decided to get obnoxiously dressed up, grab a Grey Goose, and take shots in turn. 

Draco resurfaces from the toilet bowl with eyes starting to turn blurry and red from the force of his coughing. “Fuck this.”

“Lightweight,” Pansy says, then pulls one of the fluffier towels on his bathroom shelf as a makeshift seat. 

She flips him off as he glares at her, “You won’t be done until at _ least _ 4.”

***

“Why are you always at mine?” He asks one night over dinner, takeaway from the Chinese restaurant that makes Pansy ache for her mother’s cooking. It’s not accusatory, just blunt in the way that they are with each other. And she is always over - after class, after kickboxing, after every horrific encounter with a fuckboy. She likes his apartment. It’s somewhere where her half-truths are actually understood. 

“There’s something off about my housemates,” She says after she shreds a scallion pancake into twenty flaky little pieces, “Do you mind?”

Draco glances at her from the corner of his eye. Sharp. Disconcertingly observant. “No.”

“Does your girl mind?”

Draco mulls this over with a bite of chicken, and says, finally, “Don’t think so.”

Pansy pops the last bite of food on her plate into her mouth, before snapping the take-out container shut. “I should go.”

“Pans-”

“No, really,” Pansy says, gripping her sweating Diet Coke and slinging her workout bag over her shoulder, “I’d like to keep on this one’s good side, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be fucking silly.” Draco says, leaning back on his couch and throwing his hands up exasperatedly, “

“Ask her if she minds, then.” She challenges him, and he hesitates before reaching for his phone.

He types out something quick, dramatically presses send, then raises an eyebrow at her. “There. Happy? Will you stay and finish the rest of the dumplings?”

“What’d she respond?”

Draco groans. “Does it matter? You’re my best friend. She knows that.”

“What’d she respond, dipshit?” She kicks his shin, because he’s being a brat, and she can see the text notification pop up on his home screen. 

“Does it matter?”

“_ Draco _.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces, a rare enough feat, and flashes his phone screen in her face. She’s a quick enough reader to see the response in vein with every other one, the _ not really _ and the _ i get it but _. 

“That’s my cue to go,” Pansy says, contemplating the grease on the plastic container before dumping it into the trash. “I do _ not _ want to be in this position again. Remember when I almost got my teeth knocked out?”

“But now you’re taking kickboxing,” Draco whines, petulant.

“And this one still terrifies me.” Pansy says, already slipping her feet into her Adidas. “See you tomorrow.”

***

There’s nothing in Boston, no life worthy of bringing back to Daphne, who spends 75% of her time being an art hoe at Parsons, and the rest of it getting white girl wasted. Greg’s out at culinary school, baking - like, croissants, or some shit, and Millicent is out wasting her stepfather’s money in California. God knows where Blaise is on his nine-month cruise anymore. 

She has all of them in her palm in their Whatsapp group but the physicality of friendship, of reaching over and smacking one of them gently on the shoulder, is missing. 

That’s why, she tells herself, she and Draco cling to each other so hard. It’s been this way since they were kids - distinct memories of tantrums when their families parted for the evening. 

Sometimes she wonders what would’ve happened if they’d chosen different cities, if they hadn’t been so hard-up on going somewhere _ elite _, and hadn’t both wrote and rewrote their common apps and pulled all the strings possible to get into Harvard. 

* * *

“I called your brother,” Draco says the next morning when he’s handing her an Advil and a Hydroflask of water while she’s still hiding amidst her covers. 

“What?”

“He’s coming up today.”

“What?” She repeats, stupid. Sullen. “Why would you do that? Why would you even - how do you have his _ number _?”

“Pans,” Draco sighs, and she sucks in hard through her teeth.

“No,” she turns her head up towards the ceiling, “I’m not gonna talk to him.”

“He sure as hell isn’t flying up here to spend time with _ me _ ,” Draco grumbles, sinking down on the duvet besides her, “Unless you _ want _ me to hang out with him. I’m sure he’d love that.”

She tosses one of her throw pillows at his head. “Why did you have to call him?”

“Pans,” Draco says, “Calm down.”

“I _ am _ calm.”

“No, you’re vibrating out of your skin.” 

“You always - you always make these fucking _ choices _ that you think are _ good for me _,” She says and her voice is low and hissing and really, really bitchy right now, but she can’t help it because he’s got her cornered. 

* * *

“It’s my birthday,” she says over the phone when he picks up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“And I don’t have plans.” 

“Aren’t your housemates around?”

That’s the part that she hates the most about him - how he knows her so well he can pick out the slivers of lies she embeds into the truth, flay the whole thing, break it wide open so he can see the ugliest, softest part of her. 

“Yeah, they are,” Pansy says, and lets the rest of her answer hang in the air, before he sighs - used to this, a little pitying, a little apologetic. 

* * *

  
His voice is odd and warped and Pansy’s not sure if it’s the heat or if it’s because blood is rushing to her ears. “Open it for me.”

“Calm your fucking tits, Draco,” she says, and she uses her nail to tear at the seam of the envelope. 

There, in neat Times New Roman, are the words _ Dear Mr. Malfoy _ , and _ Congratulations on your acceptance _, on Johns Hopkins letterhead. 

“You got in,” she says calmly, though her heart is beating double-time. “Bitch, you _ got in _.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”

She throws the letter at his face.

“Oh,” he says after skimming it over, which isn’t gloating and isn’t glee, which means it’s very out of line for Draco. 

* * *

Daphne meets her at Port Authority in big oversized sunglasses and Doc Martens and the teeniest sundress Pansy has ever seen. She engulfs Pansy in a hug, so hard that her sunglasses slip and clack into Pansy’s own and the force of it bends Pansy in half. It’s a fierce hug - it takes all of it in her not to cry on the spot. 

“I’ve missed you so, so, so much,” Daphne squeals. 

Pansy swallows. “Me too. You have no idea.”

“You seem upset,” Daphne says as she cuts into her avocado toast, “What’s going on?”

Pansy inhales. “Nothing. Why do you always think something’s going on?”

“Something’s always going on with you.” Daphne says sagely, like she’s wise beyond her years even though Pansy knows she still believes in all the superstitions, throws salt over her shoulders, and runs away from black cats. 

* * *

“Okay, so you’re in love with him.”

“I hate it,” Pansy says into dark, head tipped back towards the ceiling. She lets the words bounce out and out and out - 

“It could be worse,” Daphne says, reining her in, and Pansy feels the delicate touch of a pinky curled around her own. It feels like slumber parties when they were in middle school, when she and Millicent and Pansy would sit around and try to french braid each other’s hair and demolish a family size bag of Doritos in one hour. “He could know.”

“Small silver lining, Daph,” Pansy sighs, but she guesses Daphne has a point.

* * *

Draco throws one last party while Lucius and Narcissa are parading around the south of Italy, and it’s glitzy and glamorous and there’s body glitter sticking to her chest, glowing and golden. The buzz of content from white-wine sangria makes her head spin. She rests her chin on Daphne’s shoulder as Daphne flirts with Greg and thinks _ oh interesting._

“Daph is flirting with Greg,” Pansy announces when she enters Draco’s room, door bouncing off its hinges, “Fifty bucks it happens. A hundred that she’s been planning this since last summer.”

Draco shuts the door behind her, looks down his nose in a way that makes her want to shrink away. “Greg’ll be happy about that.”

“Will he?”

“Mm,” Draco hums, pushing her shoulder lightly so she’ll settle into his desk chair. “You’re very drunk.”

“You’re not,” She returns, as he resumes moving about his bedroom. He’s doing something regarding folding up his socks into neat little rectangles. There’s a precision there that she’ll miss watching, his meticulousness amidst all his mess. 

“I didn’t feel like drinking.” He says, which makes her snort because that’s _ never _ the case. 

“It’s _ your _party.”

Draco doesn’t respond. He folds the last pair of socks and puts them to rest in the corner of his luggage, zips it up slow.

* * *

“That’s what we do, right?” Pansy says, “We’re best friends. We take care of each other.”

Draco nods; he’s biting the inside of his mouth - Pansy can tell from the slant of his jaw - and fiddling with the edges of the rug under his bed. 

“Now - feel like most of the time, now, you’re taking care of me,” Pansy laughs, head spinning, room spinning, unaware that her voice is catching in her throat. 

“Yeah,” Draco says quietly, and then he looks up at her. His eyes are a melancholy shade of gray, like a sidewalk faded over the years, like a thunderstorm holding its breath. “You gonna be okay?” 

She says "Yes, I think so," lying through her teeth so convincingly she's sure even he can't see through it.


	3. escort au (flintwood)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, i probably wrote this - idk, 3 years ago?? and never got back around to it

Marcus wonders whether Wood’s a virgin. 

There’s nothing wrong with that, just with the way Wood is stammering, mouth agape when Marcus had merely taken a couple steps closer - it makes him wonder. 

Probably not - quidditch stars, after all. He feels a dull burn sitting in his stomach at the thought of quidditch, what he could be doing instead of this - this escort-for-hire service that so many of his peers have been pulled into. At one point in his life, he’d have sneered, had laughed in the face of anyone who’d thought Flints could sink into  _ that  _ particular train of service. Now - well now, Pansy’s been snapped up by Potter in the same business, and Warrington seems almost  _ proud _ of earning money this way - Marcus has discarded all thoughts of how the Wizarding World is supposed to work.

Wood is visibly astonished that Flint had shown up, Marcus can tell - sees the way the man’s hands tug unevenly at his sleeves and it’s so - so childlike in its bashfulness Marcus can’t bear to choke it down. Or maybe Wood hadn’t known it was him that he’d be getting and Marcus has the upper hand. 

He could work with this.

“What are the rules?” Wood lifts his chin, falsely brash. There’s a faint blush painting his pale skin and Marcus is so close he could reach out and trace the faint freckles dusting Wood’s cheek.

“No violence, from you or for you. No using me for illegal purposes. Same for Dark magic.” Marcus lists off dryly, the words committed to memory. “But past that - well.”

Wood meets his gaze. 

“Personal boundaries.” Marcus grins, sharp and direct in the dimly lit living room. “You’ll find that list is non-existent.”

He feels the shudder of Wood’s intake of breath - that’s how close they are right now, and Marcus can’t recall the reason he’d taken up this client. Maybe, when he’d first gotten the owl and the money (pre-paid, all real gold and Merlin knows how much he needed  _ that _ ), with the name neatly printed on a slip of parchment, maybe he’d been craving for a fight, terse words, getting under Wood’s skin - something he’s used to, something he  _ knows _ .

Now, he’s not quite so sure. 

Wood obviously didn’t request him, and now Marcus is wondering who did. And why Wood hasn’t yelled and shoved him out the door yet. There’s only one explanation, really.

“Wood.” Marcus repeats. “What can I do for you?”

It’s not a question, not really. Wood hasn’t moved back, and Marcus isn’t stupid, not with things like this. 

Wood’s skin is clammy under his touch, like melting ice, but he doesn’t jerk or jump when Marcus closes the gap between them.

It’s different. Hesitant. Marcus shoves his thoughts away and does what he does best.

***

“Isn’t - isn’t this prostitution?”

Marcus stiffens, sweat still cooling on his skin and he feels more than sees Wood realize that he’s said something wrong.

“I didn’t -”

“Just because you get to continue with your old life doesn’t mean all of us do.” Marcus growls, untangling himself from the sheets. Wood sits up, hair mussed, looking conflicted. “Don’t be a bloody Gryffindor about this.”

Wood stumbles out after him, as Marcus summons his clothes and starts dressing. He doesn’t know why his heart is pounding, why Wood’s bluntness still manages to get under his skin. The bloody man’s got a sheet wrapped around him like some blushing bride and Marcus has too much bile under his tongue to spit at him. 

“Flint, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. I have the money, you got your fuck - there. You can keep your golden conscious clean.” He tugs his robes back on, fumbles with the lock on the door, and storms out.

The hall lights aren’t on. And when Marcus chances a look back at the stairs, there’s Wood, still staring at him like an idiot from the open door. 


	4. kalicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically i got the timeline of katie's 7th year wrong and never got around to fixing it bc it upheaved the plot oops - hence why this timeline doesn't make much sense  
(i do want to finish this one day)

By the time Katie realizes she might be fully into girls, Alicia’s already graduated from Hogwarts. 

Granted it’s taken her a while – there’d been that perfunctory crush on Cedric Diggory, because he was objectively handsome and all her friends had giggled about him during the late night gossip sessions. Then there was that short bout of time where she’d liked Oliver Wood, because, she supposed, he had seemed like the next viable option at the time. Or at least he was, before she realized he was far more interested in Quidditch than any person in his vicinity.

But by the time she gets around to chatting with Cho Chang after practice, by the time she realizes she thinks Cho is _ pretty _, and not just because she’s nodding along with her classmates’ envious comments, by the time it hits her that her ardent admiration of Alicia for much of her Hogwarts career stemmed from far more than supporting a best friend – by the time she sorts everything out in her head, Alicia’s already gone off with flying colors, on track to be a Healer, all the way down in London.

It hits her full force, when she’s figuring out where to sit at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on the first day of term. Usually she and Alicia snag opposite ends towards the middle, lumping their bags together until Angelina rolls out of bed. Now, Hermione and Parvati and Lavender give her quiet hellos, and there’s no groaning from a half-asleep Angie. No Alicia, with bleary eyes and lopsided smile, expertly braiding her hair while reading the morning paper. 

She makes do with eating her toast out in the courtyard. It’s not exactly a nice feeling. 

As she lies awake at night, staring at the canopy of the four-poster bed and missing Angelina and Alicia in different ways but equal increments, she wonders if she would’ve had a chance if she’d realized earlier.

But her family has always been the one amidst all her extended relatives to show up late to events, so she’s used to missing the boat. 

It’s a little harder to resign herself to this, though. 

***

Missing her best friends takes a chunk out of her chest, but she makes fast friends with Leanne, and takes to studying alongside Hermione in the library. Angie and Alicia never go more than a week without writing, spelling out escapades with the twins (Katie misses them like hell, too) and mishaps in the medical ward at St. Mungo’s (Alicia spends weekends volunteering). 

She’s at breakfast, trying to cut a particularly stubborn piece of bacon, when Alicia’s owl comes swooping down, talons landing with a click on the wood of the table. Katie can’t help untying the neatly folded letter immediately, breakfast forgotten for the time being. 

_Hey Katie-Kat_, Alicia writes, as usual but this time it leaves a bitter taste in Katie’s mouth, _you won’t believe what happened yesterday in the ward._

And Alicia goes on to describe a poor wizard who’d manage to get all his fingers and toes stuck together, and Katie grimaces at the image. 

_ Katie-Kat, _ Alicia calls her, except when Katie traces her fingers over the neatly written letters, and rolls the syllables over her tongue, it sounds childish. Like a little sister. It’s intimate and casual and very endearing, but it’s not exactly what she _ wants _. 

But she tucks the letter away into her bag to respond to later, already drafting up the response and eager to fill them in on how the new Quidditch team is shaping up. 

***

_ Dear Alicia, _

_ McGonagall assigned us the most dreadful paper last class, so I have to apologize for not writing. But it’s over and done with so I can tell you all about how great a time I’m having all by myself, without the two of you wearing me out. _

_ I’m kidding! I miss you loads. _

_ It’s just not the same without you, the team. I guess nothing really is. But you won’t believe what happened at Quidditch tryouts the other day – do you remember McLaggen, in my year? _

***

_ Hi Katie-Kat, _

_ Really? You’re going to use old McGonagall as an excuse? Merlin, I remember her class got nasty at the end – keep your chin up. (Also don’t mention that I called her old, eep!) _

_ Aw, man, I miss you a lot too – you know how we’d all used to pile into Angie’s bed and talk about everything and anything? I miss that in particular. I love getting your letters but it’s just not the same. _

_ But enough of that – tell me about your year so far! I’m sure the boys in your year have finally grown up by now… _

Katie grimaces. Even if they have (Cormac McLaggen is still renowned for being a Grade A braggart and Katie can begrudgingly admit that he’s one of the better looking ones), she’s not interested, thank you very much.

She wonders if she should tell Alicia this. 

Instead, as she drafts her response, Katie just chooses to skip over that paragraph. Maybe another time. 

***

_ Snape’s class sounds horrid. And everyone knows he’s obsessed with the Dark Arts. What Dumbledore is thinking is beyond me, but I guess he has his own plans. _

_ Katie, the worst thing happened in the Ward yesterday. It made me cry the whole night. _

_ A little girl was brought in, you see, and she had a nasty wound on her abdomen. I won’t describe the details but it was gory – the Healer I was working with took one look and paled, and when I asked my friend Lilian why, she said it was because it was a werewolf bite. Apparently it’s been happening more and more frequently. I’m shaking with rage just thinking about how You-Know-Who is using them as weapons, to make more weapons, it’s disgusting. _

_ The girl passed away within an hour of arriving – the wound was too deep. And her poor mother – no parent should have to bury their child. It’s heartbreaking. _

_ I know Hogwarts is supposed to be safe and everything, but Merlin only knows at this point. Keep your chin up, Katie, but stay safe, you hear me? _

***

“Hey Cho,” Katie calls as she catches the Ravenclaws trooping off the pitch, and Cho waves with her free hand. 

“Hi Katie,” Cho’s got half her hair whipping into her face from the wind, and Katie thinks her own hair is doing the same, “Are you about to practice?”

“Not with the team, but I thought I’d run some of my own drills.” Before Katie mentions that Harry’s schedule isn’t all that organized yet, nor are his team assignments, she remembers that Cho’s not exactly on the best terms with him. She bites her tongue, but Cho doesn’t seem to notice.

Cho glances at the goalposts. “I could play Keeper for a bit? I’m not terrible, and it’s better than trying to set up charms.” 

Katie smiles, eager to get in the air, and thankful for Cho’s offering. “Yeah – why not?”

They wind up flying for a good hour and a half, Cho hovering in front of the center hoop and Katie streamlines her way through enough maneuvers that she thinks she’s shaken off most of the cobwebs from the summer. Her hair is coming undone from her braids, but the adrenaline from flying is thrumming in her veins and it feels good to be back in the air. 

Not as good as having Alicia by her side, running the same drills with intense focus in her face, but regardless. 

“How’s your last year shaping up?” Cho asks, broom slung over her right shoulder, and quaffle tucked underneath her left arm. 

Katie stares at the grass of the pitch as they continue on their way to the lockers. “It’s alright.”

She’s not lying, per se. Classes are fine. Her grades are fine. But that’s just it – everything is fine. Everything is _ fine _, if she doesn’t think about what’s going on outside of Hogwarts, if she doesn't let her mind creep towards the fear of not receiving the weekly letter from Angie, from hearing about the Weasleys, from reading each messier article in the Prophet about another shop’s windows blasted out in Diagon Alley. Everything’s fine if she doesn’t wonder whether Hogwarts is really as safe as they say it is.

She catches Cho glance at her from the corner of her eye, and Katie remembers who she’s talking to. “It’s – well.” Her attempt at correcting herself lodges in her throat. 

Cho turns her face up to the sky, and it looks hazy and grey, like lightning is waiting to break and crash across the open air. “Yeah, me too.”

***

The first semester of Katie’s seventh year drags on with little fanfare – they’re doing relatively okay, Quidditch wise, but she finds herself missing Oliver and Angelina’s drive. Harry’s preoccupied with something – with as much focus as Wood had been on winning. Almost. Maybe. It could rival it, Katie thinks.

But the castle, for all it’s charm and whimsical magic that still takes her breath away some days, has started turning into a fortress more than a home. Hogsmeade weekends have lost their charm, what with every morning Prophet whispering of new Dark activities.

Everyone’s on edge, and Katie’s not immune.

So when the holidays swing around, she packs her bags with gusto, ready for the comfort of her family and friends. Angelina and the twins had already asked to meet up the day after Christmas, and as Katie shrugs on a coat and bids goodbye to her Mum, she feels her spirits lift at getting out of the house – away from squabbling cousins and overbearing aunties and the harried whispering of things going on in the Wizarding World.

(Her parents keep telling her to keep her head low, but that’s never been in Katie’s plans – she’s got too many friends in the thick of it, looks at Harry and Hermione and the Weasleys and knows she couldn’t live with herself if she left her friends and classmates to wade through the mess.)

Angelina tugs her into a tight, fierce hug the moment she opens the door to her apartment. Katie laughs as Angelina practically lifts her up from the ground. 

“Katie! It’s so good to see you,” She beams, and Katie spots Fred and George playing a game of Exploding Snap over Angelina’s shoulder. They turn simultaneously when Katie calls their name, and then they’re up and on their feet to greet her as well. 

George hugs her first. “Bell, what a lovely sight-”

“For sore eyes!” Fred swoops down next. “How’ve you been?”

“Studying for NEWTs,” Katie stares at them pointedly, “Something you two wouldn’t remember, I’m sure. I heard the shop’s doing really well?”

Fred beams. “Business is booming – remember those Canary Creams?”

Katie shudders. “How couldn’t I?”

“A great gag gift for the holidays.” George adds, and he winks at Katie. She makes a mental note to be wary of any food the twins pass on to her for the rest of the night. 

“It’s good to see you all,” Katie grins, letting Angelina take care of her coat. “I’m sorry I’m late, I had to fix lunch for my cousins before I left.”

Angelina waves her apology away, leading her into the small linoleum-tiled kitchen. “You’re fine, Bell,” she hands a mug of still steaming tea over to Katie, before turning back to remake the kettle, “Alicia has to finish up a shift, so she’ll be here later. And Wood’s on his way right now.”

“Harry’s not coming?” Katie asks, and the tea scalds her tongue when she takes a sip.

“Well,” Angelina sighs, “It’s kind of bad if he’s running around all over the place without the Order knowing, right?”

“That makes sense.” Katie says, and she meets Angelina’s eye over her mug – there’s an understanding passed between them that while this is the reality of it all, that they’re all on the brink of _ something _, today isn’t the day to talk about it. At least not enough to ruin what should be a good night. 

She settles onto the couch between Angelina and George, watching Fred whoop when he beats Lee (who’d been busy fixing himself a drink when Katie had arrived) at another round of Exploding Snap. 

“Alicia really wants to see you,” Angelina pipes up, nudging Katie’s shoulder with her own and flashing her a cheeky smile, “Sometimes I think she misses you the most out of all of us.”

Katie feels a blush rising before she can help herself. “Oh, really?”

“She’s always so worried about you,” George says, nonchalantly helping himself to a cookie, as if what he’s saying isn’t sending Katie’s mind into overdrive. Well – he wouldn’t, of course, because Katie isn’t _ obvious _, but still. 

“You better keep up your grades, Bell,” George takes on a stern voice, wagging his finger, and Angelina laughs, “Or else Spinnet will have something to say about it.”

Katie shoves George’s hand out of her face. “Yeah, _ okay. _ She’s just looking out for me.”

The doorbell rings before Angelina and George can banter back, and Katie springs up to get the door, eager to keep herself from accidentally blurting out her feelings to two people who mean well, most of the time, but always end up being far too involved in people’s love lives. 

But she thinks she might be letting the cat out of the bag, because when Katie swings the door open, she can’t help but breathe out an “Oh.” 

Because there’s Alicia, with red cheeks and snow still in her curls, beaming at Katie underneath a red knit beanie. She’s almost forgotten how gorgeous Alicia is – Katie can’t breathe for a split second. 

“Katie!” Alicia surges forward, and oh Merlin_ , is Alicia going to kiss _ – nope. No. Katie curses her overactive imagination when she’s swept up in Alicia’s arms, Alicia’s puffy jacket stiff underneath her own limbs. 

Alicia cradles her face, and Katie feels her cheeks heat up under Alicia’s touch. “I’ve missed you so much, how are you?” 

“Good!” Katie blurts out, “Really good. How are you?”

She darts out of Alicia’s grasp, and awkwardly shuffles her feet as Alicia sheds her coat. 

“Busy,” Alicia sighs, stomping some of the snow off her boots, and tugging them off before heading to where Angelina is waving them over. She takes a detour to the kitchen and grabs herself a mug, Katie following close behind. “St. Mungo’s has always been a mess, but now it’s getting worse.”

Katie hums apologetically – on closer inspection, Alicia does look tired, dark circles underneath her eyes. But she smiles just as brightly towards the twins and Lee when she settles down on the couch. Alicia pats the spot next to her and Katie plops herself down, sinking back on the cushions. 

“It’s so good to see you again, Katie, it feels like it’s been ages since the summer.” Alicia blows on her cup of hot cocoa.

“It’s only been three months.” Katie points out, even though the sentiment of it is something she recognizes. 

Alicia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I used to see you everyday – there’s a difference.” 

Katie blushes, and if Alicia notices, she doesn’t comment. Instead, her attention is diverted to the sudden boom that issues from the circle that the twins and Lee are sitting in, Angelina covering her face from where she’s standing as the cards explode. 

“Still loud,” Alicia quips, smiling wanly over her mug, “The team must be really different.”

Katie sighs. “It has been. Poor Harry, though.”

“Poor Harry indeed.”

The silence that lapses in between them is comfortable – there’s things that they need to catch up on, and parts of their lives that they haven’t shared yet but Katie doesn’t feel the need to rush, to explain and ask and learn. Alicia’s presence is something that feels natural, a part of herself that makes her wonder how she’s gotten through these past couple of months without her best friend. 

They watch in quiet amusement as Fred and Lee squabble over who won their game of poker only for George to come in and scoop up the winnings while neither were paying attention. Alicia’s got her feet tucked under her, socked toes poking at Katie’s thigh, and she tries to ignore the physical touch. Tries to, because all she really wants to do is sprawl over Alicia’s lap and get tucked under her chin, have something that spells more than just regular affection and maybe more. 

Katie drains her tea, stares at the leaves at the bottom of her mug. Maybe there’s an A in there. Or a sun, for happiness.

She’s always been shit at divination, though.

Her reverie is broken when Alicia jumps to her feet, as the doorbell rings again, and then Oliver is bursting in the moment Angelina opens the door, brushing snow out of his hair.

“Hey, Wood,” Fred starts.

“Get your dirty boots off my floor, Wood.” Angelina raises an eyebrow, but she takes his coat nonetheless. Oliver hastily steps back onto the doormat, before waving at all of them. 

“You’re late, Wood.” George tacks on.

“What took you so long, Wood?” Alicia snickers, as Oliver glares half-heartedly at all of them.

“Enough, you lot. Sorry I’m late.” Oliver presses a bottle of Ogden’s, red bow tied neatly around it, into Angelina’s hands, and Lee whistles lowly.

“Apology accepted,” George laughs, before going off to help Angelina open the gift. 

“Hmm, why so late, Oliver?” Alicia waggles her eyebrows, and Oliver mimes smacking her on the head. Her curls bounce when she dodges the attempt, snuggling closer to Katie, and Katie curves her arms protectively around Alicia on impulse. She pauses.

Neither Alicia nor Oliver seem to notice. 

“Shut up,” Oliver sighs, “Not now.”

There’s a faint pink tinge to Oliver’s cheeks that Katie can tell isn’t from the cold. Her interest is piqued, because she can’t recall ever seeing Wood _ blush _. 

It proves a fruitful distraction from how good Alicia’s hair smells, under her chin.

“Am I missing something?” She pokes at Alicia’s shoulder, and receives a laugh in return. 

“Our dear ol’ captain here has a little side-piece situation going on,” Alicia informs Katie with glee, “But he won’t tell us who it is.” 

“Not a side-piece.” Oliver mumbles, plopping down on the opposite couch in a huff reminiscent of when they wheedled out of practice. He accepts a warm mug from Fred graciously, before pointedly staring at his drink. 

Angelina rests gracefully on the arm of the couch Katie and Alicia are sitting on. “A fling then.” She prompts.

Oliver sighs. “Not a fling – and anyways, aren’t were here to celebrate Christmas? You lot weren’t even talking about this crap until I got here.”

“Christmas is a time for family, dear Oliver,” George says dramatically, “And family doesn’t keep secrets, do they?”

Lee and Fred grin cheekily behind George. 

“C’mon, Ollie,” Katie says, “You know we’re only teasing. When has this been a thing?”

“I ran into him in Diagon one day, picking up flowers with this soppy smile on his face,” Angelina comments, and Oliver turns even redder, “And he stuttered so much, of course we all knew _ something _ was going on.”

“Ooh, flowers – romantic.” Lee winks. 

Wood groans, increasingly exasperated at everyone’s attention and while Katie feels a twinge of sympathy for him, she’s also massively curious – after all, similar attention has been turned to everyone except for Oliver before, so this is a very rare occasion. 

“If I tell you all, will you all shut up?”

Katie says “Yes,” the same time everyone else says “No,” and Oliver gives her a thankful smile, but then the twins start to shake his shoulders. 

“C’mon, Wood, don’t leave us hanging here.”

Oliver looks caught between amusement and annoyance, but he still manages to shrug off Fred and George, swatting them away. “Alright. Fine, fine – you lot want to know? It’s Flint.” 

He focuses his attention intently on the mug in his hands and Katie feels for him, being put on the spot like that. 

The silence that falls in the room reminds Katie of the moments after the cartoon hero gets caught in a calamity, with stars spinning over their head. Fred and George are exchanging looks with one another, while Angelina looks like the cat that caught the canary, hiding a smug grin behind her mug. 

“Marcus Flint?” Alicia asks slowly, as if they all know someone else with the last name. 

Oliver lifts a shoulder nonchalantly. “Yeah, well.” And he leaves it resolutely at that. 

Katie wants to break the quiet, but then Lee beats her to the punch. 

“I never really thought of Flint as a flowers kind of guy.” He shoots a lopsided grin over at Oliver as everyone dissolves into laughter and Wood’s cheeks turn pinker than they already are.

Katie pats Oliver on the back consolingly. “See? They’re not so bad about it.” She’s secretly glad for it as well. She doesn’t think anyone in the room had known that Oliver was into guys, but they’re all far more preoccupied with figuring out how Marcus Flint had suddenly become a romantic interest. It’s a little breath of relief, really, to know that her friends would be accepting of her if she ever told them. She’d have a rough enough time with her parents – she doesn’t think she’ll ever tell_ that _ family.

Oliver smiles lopsidedly, but then Alicia jabs him non-too kindly in the gut. “So – how’d it happen?”

“When’d it happen?” Angelina chimes in.

“Where’d it happen?” Katie follows up, earning her a disgruntled look from Wood. 

“No.” is all Oliver graces them with, turning resolutely to the Exploding Snap cards resting on the coffee table. Fred picks up the second set, and proceeds to deal them out, starting the next round. 

“At least tell us how it’s going.” Alicia wheedles, with Fred and George grinning in agreement. 

Oliver’s face flames and a mumble of “It’s been good” is all he mutters before cursing at the cards in his hand. 

Katie shoots them all a look to drop it, Oliver’s short answers speaking to his discomfort, and they all acquiesce, looking on fondly as the boys start trash-talking one another in an attempt to distract the attempts at winning.

Alicia lifts her feet back up onto the couch, and stretches, back arching and sweater raising up a little above her jeans and Katie blushes a little bit, averts her gaze and watches as Lee whoops and claps Fred hard on the back as he succeeds in balancing a card straight. 


	5. chormac college au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was for...something? its in my pile of wips and i miss writing cho so damn much tbh

Cho breaks up with Cormac McLaggen on a Tuesday. 

“So that’s that?” He asks, and he’s got his coat infuriatingly flung over his left shoulder, stance nonchalant, _ words _ nonchalant, in the way that just reaffirms why she’s making this decision in the first place.

“Yeah,” Cho says, sipping on her green tea latte that tastes nothing like green tea and faintly like cardboard, “That’s - that.”

Cormac stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing to get.” 

There is - Cho just doesn’t want to say, because saying means delving into being unwanted, just a pretty thing on his arm; her, anxious, waiting for the felling hand to come by his wavering of interest, which she’s witnessed and heard of before. She’s beating him to the punch, but she can’t let him _ know _that.

(Her logic only really works on paper, not so much in action.)

Cormac continues staring for a minute longer, coffee gripped tight in his hand, before he huffs a “Fine”, and walks off with the jacket still maddeningly swung over his shoulders. Cho watches him go, and if she’s supposed to feel something other than relief, well. 

She’s sorry to say she doesn’t.

She spends the next few days avoiding all the places she knows he usually haunts - the gym, the student center, the annoyingly pretentious campus cafe that only serves soy lattes and fresh-pressed juice. Her friends all console her for the decision, and Cho doesn’t mind not knowing whether he’s hurting or not. It doesn’t really matter. At the end of the day, she’s relieved that she’s escaped this so obviously uneven match between them, before it could blow up horrendously in her face and_ actually _ leave her with a broken heart.

Of course, the relief only lasts for a week, before everything comes screeching to a mess in front of her. 

It’s at Marietta’s birthday party when everything falls apart again. 

They’re in their sorority house off campus, kitchen decorated with the cheap fairy lights every girl gets at Urban Outfitters and Cho is in charge of mixing the drinks - that, and keeping a lookout for Roger Davies, Marietta’s newest thing, while her friend celebrates twenty-one with some well-downed vodka shots. 

With a bunch of drunk AKPsi boys jostling her for more beers, Cho’s already at the end of her patience, and very much not paying attention to who’s walking in the room, except then Parvati wobbles over in her too-high heels and whispers “Red alert!” in her ear, which means - 

Ex. In the room. Ex boyfriend in the room, and then there’s Cormac fucking McLaggen sauntering in with the blue crisp shirt Cho had given him for his birthday, wearing it as if it was tailored specifically for him even though Cho _ knows _ she’d just snagged it from Banana Republic, right off the rack. And of course, a busty brunette babe on his arm.

Fuck. 

Fuck. She’d forgotten that he’d been invited, because the event was set up before they’d broken up, and she hadn’t thought that even Cormac would have the balls to show up to Cho’s _ best friend’s _birthday. 

“What the hell,” She hisses into Marietta’s ear, “Is he doing here?”

Marietta notes her tone and whips around far too obviously for Cho’s liking, but then again, she’s got a Long Island iced in her hand. “Oh. Oh _ no _ \- do you want me to scope it out?”

Cho shakes her head, tugging Marietta further back into the corner, as Busty Brunette spots their turned heads. “No - no, let’s just. Ignore them.”

Luck doesn’t happen to be on her side - not that it ever is, but she can already feel her face flaming as Cormac’s date of the evening gestures towards the corner she’s trying valiantly to hide in - as if even at her worst, she’s been anything but a good wallflower. 

And then Cormac’s striding over, long easy steps cutting through drunk frat boys and stumbling sorority girls, cheekbones dimly accentuated by the sparse lighting and a smirk growing on his every quirked up lips. Still full of himself, still eager to get his bravado out. 

It’s so easy for Cho to hate him - at this moment, at every moment, really, except she can’t find it in herself to actually follow through. 

She talks herself into meeting his gaze, flips her long hair over her shoulder, and starts playing nonchalant. “Cormac.”

Bite the bullet before it can graze her.

“Hey, Chang,” Cormac’s smile is more reserved than she expects, “How are you?”

“Fine. Doing well,” Cho drops in on purpose, “You?”

Cormac only shrugs, eyes darting over to where his date is hovering a little ways away. “As good as I can be. This is one hell of a party.”

“Only the best for Marietta.”

The silence that descends between them is sharp, heavy. Cho can’t stand how they’re clearly tip-toeing around the elephant in the room, the obviously not entirely amicable way their one year relationship had ended. 

“Well - if that’s all, I have drinks to get back to.” Cho says, making a move to get away, when Cormac stops her with a hand to her shoulder. 

“Wait, Chang,” And there’s something off, about Cormac tonight, except she can’t quite place her finger on it. “Can we talk? Properly.”

Cho bites her bottom lip. “What is there to talk about?”

“You. Me. Us - I mean, you seem to be avoiding me, and I’m still pretty damn confused.” Cormac blurts out and it’s a jarring switch, from the usual bravado filled composure, the usual nonchalant swagger, that keeps Cho from walking away immediately. “I just thought we were doing well.”

He looks genuinely confused, and almost a little hurt, blue eyes narrowed and brows drawn. Mouth low in a way that Cho had only seen once before, that one night after his lacrosse formal and he’d found her crying in the club bathroom. 

(He’d sat with her, khakis then grimy on the bathroom countertop but had draped his stupid blazer jacket over her stupid cold shoulders and everything about Cormac McLaggen had made, still makes, Cho feel _ stupid _ and out of her depth.)

“We were.” Cho manages, eyes focusing in on the seam of his shirt instead of his eyes.

Cormac runs his hands through his hair, and Cho is struck by how this is the most absurd conversation to be having, in the middle of a party, with a Top 40 hit blaring in her ears, and Cormac’s _ date _ for the evening _ still _ hovering behind them. 

“So what - what gives?” McLaggen manages, voice exasperated, and hurt. 

He’s _ hurt _. 

Maybe she wasn’t avoiding anything after all. Maybe she’d gotten too far into her head again, like with every relationship. Maybe jumping ship before it sank would only really leave her wading water, trying to catch up to a whole embargo with four measly limbs. 

Before she can formulate an apology of sorts, however, Cormac’s date tugs impatiently on his sleeve, and something inside her snaps. Reminds her of all the insecurities, all the times she’d melded into the background, watching him hold court with his lax bros, with the Kappa girls, blond and gorgeous and altogether too flighty with his attention. 

_ So her anxiety tells her. _

“That,” Cho mutters, once Cormac turns his gaze back on her, “That - the indispensability of us. God, being stuck in - in a limbo, the entire time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I was right? Wasn’t I?”

Cormac’s mouth opens and closes, before he musters a “What?”

“We dated for a year, and then a week later you have someone new. How do you think that makes me _ feel _?”

Cormac’s face turns ruddy. “You’re the one who dumped _ me. _”

“Because I didn’t want to keep waiting for _ you _ to drop me, like you would’ve!” And with that Cho wrenches her shoulder from his grasp, weaving blindly through party-goers and laughing friends who’d missed the whole exchange. She stumbles out into the chilly evening, angrily brushing the tears welling up in her eyes and tugging her short dress further down. 

Her feet hurt, her chest hurts, and everything just _ hurts. _ Half of her knows that she’d brought all this on herself - the other half can’t help thinking about the way Cormac had walked in with someone else, how he’d fulfilled all her worst fears. 

Cho begins to make her way back to her dorm, shivering and arms curled around herself. What she doesn’t expect, however, is for an achingly familiar voice to be calling her name. 

“Chang! _ Oh for fucks sake - _Cho!”

Cormac’s running steps catch up to her hurried walking (curse heels for making running practically impossible). He cuts her path off, stops her from walking further, and Cho would be amused at how dishevelled his hair and clothes look, if it weren’t for the levity of the situation. 

“Do we really still need to be talking about this?” Cho sighs, brushing the last of her tears away and steeling herself. 

“Yes,” Cormac says, firm, “Yes, we do - because if you thought for one second that I was going to ‘drop’ you, then we have a problem.”


	6. amnesia au (flintwood)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cliche but i wanna!!!

Marcus has woken up from a bludger to the head missing his memories from the past eight years. 

That’s what the Healers tell Oliver, anyways. 

“Is it reversible?” Oliver asks, immediate, slightly desperate. There’s a boa constrictor tightening around his chest, a panic setting in a dull roar. 

“They’re putting together an official diagnosis, Mr. Wood, which we may need your help with.” The Healer says in the most reserved of tones; Oliver thinks some semblance of empathy would be nice. 

Marcus is laying down on the hospital bed when Oliver is led in. They’re lucky that the league provides them with private rooms - it’s both a preventative measure, and a comfort clause in their contract. Flint’s head is heavily bandaged, a deep purple bruising spreading beneath his eyes. He’s glaring at the ceiling. Very much upset - very much alive, which, Oliver reminds himself, is something to be grateful for in and of itself. 

Marcus notices the commotion of them entering the ward. Then his eyes, slightly swollen shut, meet Oliver’s. They narrow into a hostile squint. 

“What the bloody fuck is he doing here?” Marcus asks the Healer by his bedside; his eyes never leave their mark on Oliver, no doubt taking in the deep blue Puddelemere uniform, the sweat and grime smeared across his face, the expression of wide-eyed worry. 

The Healers look at Oliver expectantly. Oliver inhales, sharp. 

***

Marcus comes out of his one-on-one meeting with his coach with the darkest look Oliver has ever seen. It’s comparable to the time Marcus had walked in on Higgs and Pucey making out on their couch, except the situation is a lot less amusing, and a lot more nerve-wracking. Montrose’s coach claps Marcus once, firmly, on the shoulder, before turning to Oliver and pulling him aside. 

“There are some things that I didn’t tell him,” Turner says discreetly, their backs turned to Marcus, who’s currently getting run through the potion regime he’s supposed to subscribe to by an assistant Healer. “He knows the basics, of course - when he’d started with Montrose, his standing on the team, stuff like that. The other things, though...felt it best if it came from someone who knew him on a more personal level.”

“How did he take it?”

Turner shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. “Surprised, I suppose. Pretty pissed he can’t remember shit.”

“No doubt.”

“Yeah,” Turner continues, “But - Wood. Look. He’s not exactly...friendly, so to say. Rude as all hell to me before I told him I could kick his ass off the team at any moment if I wanted to.”

Oliver smiles wryly. “Sounds like sixteen year old Marcus to me.”

“Sure,” Turner says, “Makes things difficult for you, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Oliver says. He’s firm in his hope that this is temporary, that something will be enough to trigger the memories back. The hours that Marcus has been shunted around from Healer to Healer have been, for Oliver, time to think. To draw up a game plan. He doesn’t dare think about weighing the pros and cons, the likelihood of wins versus losses. There’s only one outcome that he’s willing to chase after.

* * *

“Wood,” Lawrence calls awkwardly at the next practice. The rest of the team had left the locker room already, spirits low over the accident. It hadn’t been in the news and all players are attuned to the impact of injuries, but the circumstances had become common knowledge in the league and hadn’t sat well with anyone. 

Oliver nods his head in acknowledgment, unsure of what to expect. Lawrence is stocky and tan, with close cropped dark hair and while he plays hard, he never means poorly. 

“I, uh, I wanted to apologize,” Lawrence starts, but Oliver shakes his head. 

“It happens. We both know that.”

“Yeah, but good God, Wood, never this bad.” Lawrence continues earnestly, “When it hit, I was scared shitless. And now...I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Oliver smiles stiffly, unused to working these particular muscles in his face. 

“If there’s anything I can do - how is he?” Lawrence asks. It’s been the league’s open secret that Wood and Flint were an item, long before they’d officially told their coaches and managers. Oliver’s used to fielding questions like these, but it’s a little harder when the truth of the matter is that he wouldn’t know, because Marcus is slipping out of his fingers. 

“He’ll be okay,” Oliver replies, and tries really hard to believe it himself. 

“Let me know if - anything, alright, Wood?”

Oliver nods, close-lipped in the way he’s been smiling too often these days. 

* * *

He makes his best attempt at cooking Marcus’ favorite foods; the steak, rosemary potatoes, the dash of red wine in the stew. All of this Oliver knows like the back of his hand, regardless of the fact that he’s never actually cooked it before. He can taste it if he thinks hard enough, but that’s never helped anyone in the kitchen.

“Please help,” he begs Percy after the potatoes come burnt and black out of the oven, and Percy, with a long-suffering sigh, comes round after work in order to help the disaster of the meal. 

“I’m not too good at cooking myself” Percy warns, before wrinkling his nose, “But I do know your oven is on way too high.”

“Marcus used to make dinner,” Oliver says, and then he hears the words he uttered, and collapses into a chair. 

Percy levitates the burnt potatoes into the trash with a flick of his wand, and turns immediately to the bottle of firewhiskey on Oliver’s kitchen counter. 

“You need this,” Percy instructs. “Here.”


	7. marriage law au (multi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be my piece de resistance ......yknow........once i actually finish it ha ha h a

Harry Potter has a set routine when it comes to Monday mornings - he rolls out of bed, usually on the left side, brushes his teeth, gets dressed in proper Auror training robes, and is needled to eat at least half of his breakfast by a croaking Kreacher. After that, a quick stroll to the nearest Apparition point has him in the Ministry lobby by 7:55. 

The Ministry is abuzz with something this morning, more so than usual. People flipping rapidly through the Prophet and talking in fervent whispers. Glares sent towards Wizengamot seat members makes Harry assume there’s been a mess up in the most recent trials - someone got acquitted that the public didn’t want to be, or someone was sentenced when they were  _ clearly _ innocent. 

He doesn’t pay it much mind, just ducks his head under the lilac memos in the lift and minds his own business. 

For the upteenth time, he wonders what he’s doing here.

He’d spent the better part of the last four years feeling a range of confusion to pure disgust at the Ministry, and yes, Kingsley is doing a hell of a lot better these days, but there’s still centuries of ingrained procedures that the wizarding world can’t get out of its system. He’s seen the dark underbelly of the corruption - it’s ugly, to say the least. 

And yet, when Kingsley had asked, had offered him the opportunity, he hadn’t known what else to do but jump back in. 

A rush of people get on the lift at the Department of Magical Transportation and Harry checks his robes for his wand on instinct. That’s it, really - when Kingsley had asked, he’d said yes because he hadn’t known how to be anything but in a fight. 

Auror training is alright, though. He has Ron, always, and the group of people they’re training with are far removed from Dawlish and much more like Tonks. He could trust these people, Harry thinks, when the time comes for it. 

Ron’s nursing a cup of coffee at the door to the training room - no food or beverages allowed inside - when Harry finally arrives, and the messy hair is no different than every other day. The red ears and the Prophet tightly clenched in his hand is another thing.

“You hear?” asks Ron immediately upon making eye contact.

“You know I never hear anything,” Harry laughs, but it doesn’t get anything but a wry chuckle out of his best mate. 

The Prophet is handed over to him in a flurry of falling pages. “They can’t do this to us, Harry, they can’t.

It’s tucked tightly under the rest of the headlines, because there are many headlines nowadays. The text is still bold enough to draw attention, and there are a series of words that Harry can’t make sense of, ten years of existing in the Wizarding World not preparing him for it. 

**Blood Clause Passed: Estate Confiscation Found Fitting Resolution**

**“** That’s what I thought at first - trust me, it doesn’t make sense to anyone right now,” Ron groans, “But here, here’s the rest of the article on - gimme a second - this page right here.”

“So let me get this straight,” Harry says, skimming quickly and trying hard to get his hazy morning brain to focus, “The Wizengamot just passed a law that allows them to confiscate estates if people don’t get bonded the way they want to? This is about land?”

Ron shakes his head. “It’s more than land. The strength of each family’s magic is pretty much tied to where we grew up. So the Burrow is kind of the hub for all of our magic - like obviously, we can perform magic anywhere, right? But it’s because we have a root somewhere.”

“That’s why wizards are terrified of getting disowned,” he continues, brushing some of his red hair out of his eyes, “No root means your magic gets a little wonky. Sometimes you can really lose your power.”

“But what about me and Hermione, and -”

“It’s very old pureblood specific, this law,” Ron grimaces, “I think I know what they’re getting at - you know, no more consolidation of all the intense magic by the big racist families. Good in theory, I guess, but if you look at the details, it’s going to cause a mass panic. The after-effects of this is going to reach everyone. 

“I can’t believe Shacklebolt let this pass.” Ron adds on disbelievingly, as if the Prophet is going to turn around and suddenly become the Quibbler. 

“Well, he’s one of those old pureblood families himself, isn’t he? He can’t really say no, Skeeter and the rest of the press would tear him apart.”

“This sucks. I think Dad had you and Hermione folded into The Burrow ages ago, so it’ll impact you two, too. Sorry, mate.” Ron looks at him apologetically, as if Harry’s throat hadn’t tightened up at that. 

“No - that’s - that’s really great. I didn’t know. Thank you.”

“It’s old magic, it’s not much. You know the Burrow.” Ron claps him on the back, still looking a bit earnest, but Harry brushes him off with a returning touch on the shoulder. They head into training, pushing aside what will inevitably be a long, long ordeal until six hours later. 

***

A thunderous Hermione meets them after work, hair reflecting her mood as she plops three heavy Wizarding Law books down on the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. “It’s absurd, is what it is.”

“This for school?”

“Yes and no,” Hermione’s nostrils flare, “I checked them out to see what we can do about that  _ silly  _ law.” 

Harry flicks away a piece of lint from his robes. He’d read all the papers after training today, trying to wrap his mind around the agenda that’s being pushed through the courts right now. Reporters had already bombarded him on the short walk from the Auror training room to the Floo and he’d declined, wary of saying anything that could be used against his intentions. 

“If it’s passed, there’s not much we can do about it.” Ron groans, coughing as a puff of dust escapes one of the heavy tomes. 

Hermione’s indignant look makes both of them hide a smile. “Ronald, please, have we ever let anything so blatantly unfair go by without a fight?”

“I’m sure deep down in me, the righteousness is begging to be released. Deep, deep down.” Ron mutters aside to Harry. Harry grins.

“I’m tired of fighting, personally,” Harry says, “Granted, this all just seems incredibly weird. How would they even control this?”

“Magical traces, I’m assuming,” Hermione sighs, flipping hurriedly to section and section, “The same type of magic that informs them when an underage wizard does magic in public. Applied at this level is an insane breach of privacy, let alone an extreme attempt to control a problem that has so much more to do with than marriage and families. It’s systematic, don’t they  _ get _ it?”

Ron pulls over a heavy textbook to himself. “You know them. When do they get anything?”

“They’re pushing this insanely quickly,” Harry chimes in, Daily Prophet a beacon in all of their peripheral visions. “TSix weeks to get hitched, or else your land gets removed from your name? It’s practically forcing people into unhappy marriages.”

“Or abusive ones,” Hermione says darkly. “There’s a severe power dynamic difference here. Pass me the paper would you?”

Ron passes it over to where Hermione sits, and she lays it out on the table without preamble. There, in big blocky text, reads the details of the clause that’s caused the uproar.

**MEMBERS OF THE WIZENGAMOT HAVE PASSED RESTRICTIONS ON THE FOLLOWING FAMILY ESTATES:**

  * ****Members of said families listed in the Sacred Twenty Eight roster will, from now on, be disallowed from marrying other members of equal blood distinction.****

  * ****Members of said families listed in the Sacred Twenty Eight roster will, from now on, be disallowed from marrying members of Pureblood families.****

  * ****Families of Pureblood standing must have evidence of Half-blood or Muggle-Born relatives in order to be exempt from land confiscation.****

  * ****No intermarriage of magical stakeholders of the same estate.****

  * ****Individuals of Pureblood upbringing of single status or as sole beneficiary of a Pureblood estate, must participate in estate distribution.****

  * ****Individuals of Half-blood status of single status or as sole beneficiary of a Half-blood estate, must participate in estate distribution.****

“A lot of words for basically telling us to marry by their rules, or get our land taken away.” Ron says. “I guess they got one thing right about the wizarding incest, though.”

“One thing,” Hermione says through gritted teeth, “Among a list of five other things that’s already causing mass hysteria. There was a girl in my lecture today who burst out into tears - Muggle-born, the type of witch that the Ministry is so called ‘protecting’.”

Ron shakes his head, leaning back against his chair to avoid a levitating hot plate coming to a rest in front of him. “So what now?”

They all scooch back as three levitating plates interrupt, coming to a rest at the table in front of them.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione says glumly. 

“Yeah, thanks, Kreacher,” Harry echoes, mulling over the clauses still laid out in front of them. It’s times like these that he aches for Remus to still be around, ever a knowledgeable and practical council for every twist and turn thrown their way. He misses Tonks too, who’d either lighten the mood with one of her transformations, or firmly vent alongside Ron. And of course, Sirius, who would have showed off the paper to Walburga’s portrait’s distaste.

He makes a mental note to pay Andromeda and Teddy a visit come the weekend they return from traveling.

The quiet kitchen fills with the clinks of spoons against plates, before Hermione suddenly bursts into tears over her pasta. Ron and Harry exchange alarmed looks. 

“Mione, it’s alright,” Ron says, passing her a handful of tissues as she quiets down to sniffles, “We’ll figure something out.”

“It’s not alright! It’s horrible! After everything that we’ve been - that we’ve been - and your  _ family _ , Ron, how could we -”

“Hermione, calm down!” Ron cuts off her panic before she can go any further, and looks over Hermione’s head to Harry for support. “Look, Mum and Dad knew what they were doing, they know the risks! Obviously, none of us thought this would happen but you know my family. It’s not a problem. It’s not a big deal.”

Harry wants to say that it  _ is _ a big deal, but as Hermione takes deep, shuddering breaths, he concedes that this might not be the time. 

* * *

Sunday morning breakfasts at The Burrow had become post-war tradition, after that first weekend amidst the legal battles and the press and the whole wizarding world asking  _ what’s next _ . Molly Weasley had hauled everyone in by their collars, had extended an invitation to Andromeda Black and little baby Teddy Lupin, and cooked up a feast of breakfast foods. It’d been a long-standing invitation, as all Weasley family things are, and while the cast at the dining table was different each weekend, all the Weasley children in the area showed up (Charlie ducked in and out). 

This Sunday’s topic of interest was, to no one’s surprise, about the new estate confiscation. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed to be trying to keep a calm demeanor, although Harry could see clearly how frazzled they were - Mrs. Weasley was cooking copious amounts of bacon, and Mr. Weasley had dark circles under his eyes, a sight not unfamiliar during war time. 

They had six kids to marry off now over the short span of six weeks. Harry can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. While he hadn’t known - and really, which of the Weasleys would even blame him? - he doesn’t enjoy the idea of adding onto the pressure of dodging the potential estate confiscation. The juxtaposition of the Burrow with the other Pureblood estates he’d seen was jarring and obviously not something someone higher up had thought about.

He watches Hermione fidget with her butter knife, watching the bustle between kitchen and dining table and a bunch of red hair weaving in and out of the room, and knows she’s feeling the same way. 

He goes to help Mrs. Weasley with the plates, but is shooed away. Ginny rescues him from her mother’s harried movements. 

“Percy’s late, of course,” Ginny tells him, taking his elbow and leading him back to his seat, “And Fred and George are dealing with something for the shop, and so Mum’s blaming her nerves on all that. But we all know it’s about the clause.”

“Did your dad know about it beforehand?”

She shakes her head. “Apparently it was from very high up. Power players really pushing their agenda.”

“Not the Malfoys?”

“Oh Merlin, no. They’ve fallen from  _ grace _ .” Ginny says, sarcasm oozing from her words. She passes over the cutlery to Harry and Hermione, who stops fidgeting with the jams and busies herself with organizing the table. 

“I’d think the Malfoys would have no say in government anymore,” Hermione sniffs. 

“They don’t,” Ron says, leaning back in his chair and yawning. “I ran into Malfoy the other day in the Ministry lift. Lost his usual swagger now, hasn’t he? Never thought I’d see the day where he and Parkinson look uncomfortable in the Ministry.”

“Good riddance,” Mr. Weasley says as he carries a plate piled high with toast into the kitchen, “Ron, go help your mother with the bacon.”

“By help, Dad means bringing it over, not eating all of it before it gets to the table.” Ginny snickers. Ron elbows her before heading off to help Mrs. Weasley. 

* * *

They’re all interrupted with a bang against the window, Errol making his morning announcement. Ron mumbles under his breath about how “the blasted bird is immortal” and goes to fetch the post. Harry doesn’t comment, suddenly hit with an intense wave of missing Hedwig. He’d barely thought about her in the past few weeks, not having time to field letters. Hagrid had offered to buy Harry a new owl, but he’d declined - it wouldn’t be the same, after all.

“Even before it's passed, it's taking effect,” Bill says tightly once he unties the letter from Errol’s outstretched leg, “Letter for you, Harry.” 

He passes a white wax sealed envelope over to Harry.

“People have been jumping into nuptials like it's nobody's business.”

They all turn at the sound of Percy entering the front door, looking bone-weary and needing about three days of sleep. “The Department of Familial Affairs has been drowning in paperwork from all the split-second filed marriages.”

“That's allowed?” Arthur asks sharply.

“There's nothing barring it right now, though I’m sure they’ll put a hold on it soon,” Percy says. He pulls the plate of toast closer to him and starts buttering robotically. “People are taking advantage when they can, and as long as both partners are willing, then there's nothing to be done.”

“Serves them right for trying to pull one over us,” Ron mutters darkly. 

Hermione sighs. “Yes, but I imagine it's causing a lot of rash judgments right now. Grab the nearest friend you have and go.”

“Not even friends,” Fred’s voice echoes down the stairs and a moment later he and George appear, brows furrowed and looking quite disturbed. “Harry, you got the invitation?”

Harry raises the envelope in response. George nods, gesturing for him to open it. With a quick slip of his thumb under the wax seal, a delicate card tumbles out. There on the front is an elegantly traced  _ You are cordially invited to the wedding of. _ Harry stops his finger once he gets to the name. 

“Wood?”

“And  _ Flint _ .” Fred bursts out, and everyone pauses momentarily to watch Percy splutter as he chokes on his tea. “Where the bloody fuck did that come from, I ask you?”

“Language!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

Hermione shakes her head, unfamiliar with either party past quidditch but Ron has his fork halfway to his mouth. 

“Flint? Big bloke who was Slytherin captain when you joined the team?”

“That one,” Harry nods in acquiescence. “Last I remember they were arguing over the finals during our third year.”

“Poor Wood’s finally been hit in the head with one too many bludgers,” George says sadly. “You'd think he'd be able to find anyone else.” 

Harry passes the invitation to a curious Hermione. “And they're actually holding a wedding? Seems like it'd slow things down.”

“A lot of old society purebloods are doing the same,” Percy says wearily. “They file first, and then hold a ceremony - I suppose, it's a way to still maintain appearance and tradition. I wouldn't be too worried about Oliver,” he tacks on after a moment of thought, “He’ll know his way around this.” 

“It's the weekend after next,” Fred sighs, “The shops mad busy these days, what do you think Georgie?” 

“It's rude to decline good friends,” Mr. Weasley points out, sausage pointing in the air on the end of his fork.

“We might as well brush off the old dress robes,” George responds sadly, “I’d always wondered if Wood would get married - who could possibly win out over his obsession with Quidditch, you know? - and I feel a little robbed.”

Mrs. Weasley plucks the invitation out of Harry’s hands. “Well, you’re all afforded a plus one, so it doesn’t seem like it’s that hurried. Weddings take a lot of planning, you know.”

Everyone looks at Bill, who’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

“It’s so sad,” Ginny says mournfully. “Weddings should be happy things, and so many people are doing this just to avoid the punishment. Isn’t anyone banking on the possibility that it might get repealed? Why aren’t people waiting?”

“Oh, you know what happens with those discussions!” Mrs. Weasley exclaims, “They talk and they talk and nothing comes of it. People don’t want to take the risk, dear.”

“Do we know who’s leading the Wizengamot discussion?” Bill asks, passing around the plate of bacon. Percy takes it and promptly doles four slices onto his plate.

“There's a discussion?” Hermione says sharply, eyes brightening in interest. “Why haven't I heard about it?”

“They're keeping it hush-hush,” Bill smiles ruefully, “I overheard the goblins talking about it. Because of how small a margin the clause passed, some Wizengamot officials are pushing for a revote. Unheard of, though, so I doubt they'd get it.”

Hermione rises from her seat at that and runs up the stairs. Ron jabs his fork into a sausage. “She's remembered something. Maybe we’ll all be saved.”

“So who brought up the talks?” Harry asks.

“The Bones,” Mr. Weasley says, “They’re mediating at least. It’s split right now, from what I hear. The ones who want to get rid of it are disorganized, because they all want it gone for different reasons. The ones who want it to stay are frighteningly stubborn.”

“Who’s backing the clause, Dad?” Ginny asks.

“Well. The Malfoys are being  _ very _ accommodating to the Ministry right now,” Arthur says darkly, “Which makes sense, given the state of their Gringotts account. The rest of the faction is headed by the Bulstrodes and the Selwyns, and they’re refusing to budge.”

Ron stops mid-chew. “You’d think the old rich Slytherin families would be the ones most against this. Why’re they so hard-pressed for this to pass?”

“Public image, most likely,” Bill says, “You were all too young to remember what happened after the first war, but there was a hell of a lot of pretending to be for things that were contradictory to usual family values. I’m guessing the old pureblood families who are supporting this are trying to salvage their reputation, given how Dark aligned most of them are. 

“The other ones are probably in it for the money,” Harry says darkly, “I trust Kingsley, but I don’t trust half his cabinet.”

Bill passes the marmalade to Percy, who continues stuffing his mouth like a man starved. “I’m sure some of them also hope the Ministry will turn a blind eye to their marriage arrangements if they put their full support behind it. I doubt many of them are so ready to go against their, ahem, values.”

* * *

Wood’s wedding, according to the invitation clutched in Harry’s right hand, is held at some place called White Cliffs. The portkey deposits them at the end of a long combed pathway, white marble mansion in front of them. Ivy crawls up the bottom half of the building. Swathes of some satiny fabric are looped from lamppost to lamppost down the pathway. Harry can’t help smiling at Fred’s resounding snort.

“Opulent,” Fred mutters, and George clicks his tongue in agreement.

“Fitting of a proper pureblood family, huh?” George elbows Harry in the ribs as they set off down towards the venue. 

“I really thought Oliver would get married in a Quidditch bleacher,” Harry half-jokes, picturing his old captain in Quidditch robes and agreeing to a union perched on his broomstick. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

A house elf appears at their side, old and bent at the waist as in forever a picture of servitude. Harry wonders what Hermione would have to say about this, but before he can catch the house elf’s introduction, they’re whisked inside. There are familiar high-profile faces mingling in what Harry assumes the front hall of the estate - the Ministry Ambassador to France, the head of Broom Regulatory Control department, the secretary at the Goblin Liaison office, to name a few. It’s a lot of people he hadn’t expected to see at a wedding of two quidditch players, but, he supposes this is as much a political event as it is a celebration. 

There’s a clear distinction in the makeup of the guest list, though, that much is clear. Fred and George nudge Harry as they move through the front room, trailing after the house elf. The demographic begins to change from Ministry personnel to old familiar faces from his Hogwarts days, almost forgotten. Harry spots Montague, chatting animatedly with who he vaguely recalls as Derrick. Gregory Goyle waits patiently by Daphne Greengrass, as she pulls Millicent Bulstrode into a hug. Tracey Davis and Cassius Warrington exchange perfunctory nods over their champagne glasses. 

He’s distinctly aware they’ve just walked into a room of Slytherins. Wood’s side of the guest list must either be late, or stashed away into a separate room. The stark contrast of the twins red hair is not gone unnoticed by the rest of the crowd, although everyone is making a great effort at pretending that that isn’t the case. 

* * *

“Right," Oliver says, looking up from his attempt at a tie, "I’ve heard. Marcus’ father is backing it.”

“Really?” George pipes up with interest, “Dad didn’t mention his family was.”

Oliver hums thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. His father’s a Bulstrode by in-laws, so he always operates under that rather than the Flint name.”

“All about that public image, huh?” Fred says cynically, “Gotta make sure the Voldie alliance gets wiped from memory.

A snort from the back of the room startles all of them. “Sure, that’s one reason why.”

Marcus Flint enters dressed in a similar suit as Oliver, even taller and broader than Harry remembered as a first-year. 

Wood sighs. “You’re not allowed back here,”

“Bullshit,” Flint says nonchalantly, and he tucks the handkerchief into Wood’s front pocket for him. “One - you can’t tie a tie properly, and my mother will throw a fit. And two, we’re not subscribing to that ‘curse on marriage’ bullshit because neither of us are a bride.”

He undoes Wood’s tie for him and begins to retie it, much to Wood’s clear exasperation. It’s a fond exasperation, though - that much is palpable, and the two men are clearly comfortable around each other in a way that they weren’t in school. Fred and George exchange looks with Harry, all a little caught off guard by this turn of events.

“Long time no see, Flint.” Fred says, with all the air of someone who hadn’t hoped to meet him for the rest of time. “I see your nose healed fine from the last time we met.”

“Weasley. Weasley,” Flint acknowledges them, then eyes Harry with an unreadable expression. “Potter. And no, Weasley, it didn’t.”

“He snores,” Wood supplies helpfully. 

“Sorry,” Harry interrupts, not wanting to watch a bickering match, “You said that that’s not the reason your father’s backing the estate confiscation?”

Flint frowns. “No, it’s one of them. Oliver, what the hell did you do to this tie?”

Wood snatches the offending article out of Flint’s big hands. 

“What’re the other reasons?” George pushes.

“Well,” and Flint’s grin is still as crooked as Harry remembers, “My old man hates that I’m having this wedding, doesn’t he? Almost disowned me when I told him.”

Fred and George exchange a look again. “We don’t seem to follow.”

Harry struggles to sit up in the overstuffed chair. “You don’t mean- ”

“Flint Sr. pretty much hated the fact that we were dating,” Wood explains, “And he’d thought that with the whole marriage clause, we’d have to break-up and marry other people - more  _ appropriate  _ people, mind you - since, y’know, we both come from fairly established wizarding families.”

“But that’s not how the clause works.” Harry says. 

“Nope,” Flint says, incredibly smug, “Old man didn’t realize that Wood’s family doesn’t have the kind of estate that we do. They’re far too intermarried with Muggles to count as pureblood, and Oliver’s family moved around a shitton when he was a kid-”

“To find a place with good little league teams,” Wood elaborates, and everyone in the room rolls their eyes. 

“-So they never fully developed a plot of land for their magic to take root.”

“I don’t understand how that doesn’t impact your magic, Oliver.” Fred frowns. 

Wood shrugs. “I’m not sure myself. But I’m guessing it’s because that’s all my magic has ever known, so it adapted.”

“Makes some sort of sense,” Harry says, thinking about how he hadn’t had an estate to root his own magic in for the first three years of his life in the Wizarding World, and still managed alright. “I mean, magic must find a way, right? Wizards from non-magical families, or like Wood’s situation. That shouldn’t be the end all be all.”

Oliver nods. “Anyways - we’re here now, aren’t we?”

They murmur their agreement. Before Harry can ask whether or not this wedding had been in the works, the clicking of quick heels on hard floors rings into the room, and Alicia, Katie, and Angelina burst into the room in a bright array of dress robes. 

“Merlin,” Flint mutters under his breath as the girls launch onto Wood with an excited yell.

“My robes,” Wood sighs, as Angelina pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, “My mum’s going to have my head.”

“Shut it, you - you owe us a decent explanation and some back story and at  _ least _ three drinks tonight, but for now we’ll make do with fussing over you.” Alicia wags her finger, briefly assessing Wood’s robes before turning to where Flint had been trying to sneak out of the room. “And  _ you _ .”

The three girls surround the exit, blocking Flint off from escaping. 

“Do we really need to do this?” Flint laments, “I get it. I’ll treat him right, I should feel lucky to have him, blah blah blah.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising,” Angelina raises a dark eyebrow. “Wood, you’re sure about marrying this big lug?”

“Don’t worry, it’s for the money,” Wood laughs, earning him a reproachful look from Flint. 


	8. greek god au (flintwood)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is about the Aesthetic™ and nothing else tbh

Oliver is a bitter, possessive god. 

Below him, on the battlefield - fields of green tainted copper red with the spilled remains of the men waging war against one another - below him, Flint stands staring at the wreckage of the day. 

He’s the only one left standing. It’s becoming a pattern, a commonality. 

It’s worrisome to his army commanders. It’s worrisome, and dangerous, and a red flag because regardless of where they place Flint, the outcome is the same. Another fight, another massacre, and Marcus alone standing grey and ashen at watching yet another handful of companions slain to the ground. 

This time, they banish him to the next city-state. Next time, they could have his head. Oliver knows this, knows the suspicion he’s stirring up, but he’s selfish and unable to relax. Everytime Flint is called into battle again, Oliver breaks the rules. Places a halo of protection around the man and leaves the forces of each side’s prayer to him to play out. 

The smoke in the temples rise higher and higher, darker and darker, but Oliver can’t bring himself to level the playing field. The scales are tipped in favor towards Flint’s enemies. Oliver keeps that rule in place, except for the one. 

***

When he was seventeen, his father had gambled away all of their money, and the crops had failed, and Oliver - the eldest of four - had spent time lurking in alleyways learning the sleight of hands it took to get gold from rich men’s pockets. He’d memorized the patterns of the day-to-day foot traffic and knew roughly when the marketplace sellers would start losing their eagle eye due to the summer heat. If he were lucky, the women would lose their belongings from neglect and then there’d be something to pawn. 

Half was given to his mother to cook. The other half, from his father’s encouragement to keep in good standing, was placed at the altar to the god of War. His father had come from a military family. Of all the gods, his father had always told Oliver, this was the one to keep in good standing with. 

The Flints weren’t wealthy, but well enough off, and Marcus had discovered him one evening, picking through the failed crops in hopes of something salvageable.

“I’d wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Marcus said. When Oliver replays the memory, years and years later, he would no longer remember the shame of being found out, the bristling anger at the back of his neck. Instead he wishes he’d noticed these things - the squint in Flint’s eyes from the sun, the deepening tan from the late summer sun, the undercurrent of  _ caring _ , low and deep, in the two yards between them.

“Don’t report me,” Oliver says. It’s a request more than anything. 

Marcus looks over his shoulder and says, instead “There’s no one in the house. Come in.”

When he was seventeen, Oliver had been in love with Marcus Flint for two years already, and held affection for him for far longer than that. A summer of naivety in which they spent time running and training in the dirt, and another where they’d calmed down and simply enjoyed each other’s company. As he follows Marcus into the house, he resists the urge to run his fingers down Flint’s bare arm, to appreciate the sinew of muscle now building on the older’s frame. 

“You’re welcome to stay,” Marcus says, even though they both know that Oliver is full of pride and unwilling to take a favor. 

(Flint asks because he misses Oliver’s company. Because he has also held a care in his heart for longer than he cares to acknowledge. It’s normal, isn’t it, to want to keep cherished things close?

In hindsight, Oliver should have known this. But he was young and naive when alive, and it is, as he slowly learns, always easier to see transparent intentions from above.)

On any other summer day, they would have been lounging by the river, skiving off their lessons and eating figs to their heart’s content. The disruption of his family’s debt had disrupted the easy rhythm their lives had had. And maybe that was the beginning of Oliver’s bitterness. 

“Come here,” Oliver says once they reach private chambers. He refuses to be led anywhere. Marcus, knowing this, comes into Oliver’s reach, and winds their limbs together, lets their bodies resume the roles they already know.

***

He gets caught by a general when he gets too cocky, aimed too high. Maybe the sun was particularly bright that day, and the golden bracelets were glistening particularly well, or maybe it was because he’d been giddy - giddy off of the celebrations and the hope in his father’s words as he spit out that he’d won his bets, for once, finally, after all this time.

The one bracelet he’d hidden well is still hot from the beating sun when he uncovers it in the holding cell. Oliver digs his thumb into the sharp edge, so hard the indent lasts for hours.

***

The night before Oliver is scheduled to enter the ring, he prays and prays to the God of War, asks for forgiveness, bravery, and a miracle to happen. 

He knows, the moment they drag him in, that he won’t make it out alive. That’s what happens to beggars and thieves and the underbelly of their society. The crowd is lush and vicious and filled with blood-lust, thirstier than the beast he’s supposed to fight. The dirt is packed underneath his feet - each step of his kicks up dust, tickles his nostrils, makes his eyes water. He’s squinting out into the distance but he can’t see anything, really. 

He wonders, briefly, if Marcus is somewhere up above. Jeering too. Or stone-faced, an impasse, and angry in that rigid way he always is when things don’t go the way he wants them too. If he were being honest, he doesn’t want to see him. Or more so he doesn’t want Flint to be witness to him desperate and begging.

The bare teeth of the beast glint in the sunlight, alluring and dangerous.

That’s the last thing he truly remembers when he’s brought back. It’s too soft, the place where he wakes up. Everything is white and bright and luxurious. It’s too perfect, and Oliver feels like crying. He realizes that no matter the growing frustration, he can’t. 

_ Welcome _ .

The figure in front of him is terrifying. Ethereal, bright, luminous. It should be comforting but it is disconcerting and Oliver looks away. There is no face, no mouth, just dark holes where there should be eyes and a rumbling that hits Oliver deep in his body when the figure speaks. 

_ You will ascend. You will take my place. _

He can’t argue, that much is clear. Oliver could ask what place he’s supposed to take but he knows, deep down in his bones, without having to voice his question. He knows this figure - has seen it in the smoke in the temples, has seen it in fever dreams and nightmares where he sits up gasping.

_ You must let go. _

That’s the last thing that echoes before Oliver is blinded by the piercing brightness of his surroundings, before he suddenly knows exactly where he has to go from here. 


End file.
